"We've still got some bottled water in the backseat. I'll wash my face, then put on a cap, a shirt, and pants to hide the rest of this until we reach a motel."

"You reek of cordite," Jamie said.

"Some people think it's sexy."

PART SIX. Threat Reprisal

1

The motel on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was two hours north, far enough that if Rutherford ordered a search for them, it wasn't likely to be successful, especially since Rutherford didn't know Jamie's name or the kind of car they drove.

Harrisburg, the state capital, had another advantage. It was large enough to have numerous video-rental stores. The Clint Eastwood movie, whose title Cavanaugh had remembered but kept secret when Grace had read the list of Eastwood thrillers, wasn't hard to find. But the Troy Donahue/Sandra Dee film was another matter. After Cavanaugh and Jamie checked into the motel, they needed to visit almost every one of Harrisburg's video stores before they got their hands on a tape of A Summer Place.

"Star-crossed lovers at a resort town in Maine." Jamie read from the back of the VHS box after they returned to the motel.

Cavanaugh put the tape into a player that they'd rented. "Prescott isn't exactly a romantic kind of guy, so there's got to be another reason he thinks this movie's important."

"Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he wanted to move to Maine," Jamie said.

The tape was so old and worn that it colors were faded and its image had speckles. Obviously intended for a wide screen, the panoramic scenery looked cramped when trimmed to fit a standard-size TV It didn't help that the screen was only twenty inches.

"Music's not bad," Jamie said.

"That's about all that isn't."

While adults had affairs, Donahue and Dee were warned that their own love was forbidden. Richard Egan acted almost as woodenly as Donahue. Ponderous scenes were punctuated by waves pounding a gorgeous pine-rimmed beach.

"Interesting house."

In the movie, a low, sleek modernistic house occupied a rocky point in a bay. Made of stone, the structure resembled the prow of a ship as waves crashed against its base.

"Reminds me of houses by Frank Lloyd Wright," Jamie said.

Amid soaring music and scenery-chewing performances, the film mercifully ended.

Cavanaugh pressed the rewind button. "Maine."

"And now for our second feature…" Jamie picked up Play Misty for Me and read what was on the back of the box. " 'Female stalker pursues disc jockey. Clint Eastwood's directorial debut. Filmed in his hometown of Carmel.'" She studied the picture on the front of the box. "Jessica Walter and a knife. Good. Slasher movies are my favorite."

"Actually, it's fairly well made. I saw it so long ago, I barely remember a thing about it, but I do recall thinking Eastwood did a decent job. It's nice and tense."

"Can't have enough tension," Jamie said.

"California. Maine. Prescott certainly had trouble making up his mind."

"Well, pop in this beauty," Jamie said, "and let's see why Prescott likes it so much."

The movie began with a long overhead helicopter shot that moved along a rugged coastline with waves smashing against rocks and windblown pine trees hugging the bluffs.

Thirty seconds into it, Cavanaugh and Jamie both leaned forward from where they sat on the bed.

"Holy shit," Cavanaugh said. "A Summer Place was supposed to take place in Maine, but it was actually filmed in-"

"Carmel," Jamie said.

They watched raptly as Clint Eastwood drove his sports car along the craggy coast. He and his girlfriend later took long walks along a beach.

"That's the same beach that's in A Summer Place," Jamie said. "The curved shape of the bay's so distinctive, I can't imagine there's another like it."

"Look for the Frank Lloyd Wright house," Cavanaugh said.

It never showed up, but that didn't matter. By the time the movie was over, Cavanaugh and Jamie were convinced. Play Misty for Me and A Summer Place had used the same location.

"What else did you notice when you first met him? You mentioned books," Jamie said.

"About photography-one looked like some kind of sex book. And geology. And Robinson Jeffers."

2

The Harrisburg library had a dark curved glass exterior and a spacious reference area with numerous computer stations. Cavanaugh and Jamie roamed the stacks, bringing various volumes to a table in an out-of-the-way area.

"Listen to this," Jamie whispered. "The bay at Carmel-by-the-Sea, as the town's really called, is at the tip of a huge underwater gorge that rivals the Grand Canyon. Geologists are fascinated by the place."

"That explains one of the books," Cavanaugh said.

"Also, the town's famous for its writers, artists, and photographers." Despite the emphasized word, Jamie managed to keep her voice low. "Ansel Adams lived there. So did Edward Wes-ton."

"I know who Adams is, but who's-"

"You said you thought the photography book Prescott had was pornographic."

"It had a kind of sexy name and a nude on the cover."

"Passion?"

"What?"

"Could the book have been called Forms of Passion? Take a look."

Jamie slid the book across. The photographer's name was Edward Weston. The cover had been removed, but when Ca-vanaugh flipped through the pages, he came to the most beautiful nude he'd ever seen.

"This was on the cover," he said.

A slender young woman sat with her head bowed, her forehead resting on an upraised knee. She was naked and yet no private part was exposed. Her sensuous pose reminded Cavanaugh of an earlier photograph of a pepper that looked like two people making love. Another page showed a magnificent seashell with the same erotic contours.

"Passion." Cavanaugh stared at the photos. "For everything."

Then Cavanaugh came to landscapes of what the book said was Point Lobos, near Carmel. Page after page showed the same beautifully rugged seacoast that had been in A Summer Place and Play Misty for Me.

"Is there any doubt Prescott was crazy about this area?" Jamie asked.

A librarian going by didn't seem to notice Cavanaugh's bruised face, but she did give Jamie a stare for talking.

Looking apologetic, Jamie peered down at the books. As soon as the librarian was gone, she whispered, "You said Prescott had an interest in golf. Pebble Beach is one of the most famous golf courses in the world-it's slightly north of Carmel. You said he had a gourmet's taste for food. According to this, Carmel has more great restaurants per block than just about anywhere. To nail down the connection, all we need to do is figure out how Robinson Jeffers fits in."

"I've already done that." Cavanaugh slid his notes across to her. "Jeffers and his wife, Una, visited Carmel in 1914 and were so struck by the area that they stayed there the rest of their lives. Jeffers bought land, hauled chunks of granite from the beach, and spent years building a stone house and a forty-foot tower. He called the place Tor House after some rock formations in England. He and Una died there."

Cavanaugh showed her a book of Jeffers's poems, drawing attention to two lines.

I built her a tower when I was young- Sometime she will die-

"Prescott and I discussed those lines about the tower when I first met him, but I had no idea what they referred to," Cavanaugh said.

"Now you do."

"Now I do."